All Things Aside
by sparklylulz
Summary: When Sherlock 'dies' John begins writing him letters. 'You were what made me shine, Sherlock, but now I'm faded and rusting. Nothing will ever be the same without you again.' -John/Sherlock. Spoilers for the Reichenbach Falls.


**a/n: **so this was written mainly between packing for college and doing absurd amounts of laundry. I loved the prompt more that words can express. Please excuse any mistakes made, for this has not been Brit-picked.

**The prompt from LJ: **When Sherlock "dies," John starts a project - he writes letters, or records a video diary, or maybe starts a private blog, that basically consists of all the things he wants to say to Sherlock. Things from, "Flat seems quiet today, what I wouldn't do for a good explosion," to, "Your brother gets creepier every time I see him," to, "I wish I'd kissed you that one time, you know when." He shuts it down after three years, because that's really too long to be pining after your dead flatmate.

Sherlock, who's alive, either has access to these things (Mycroft procures copies? Sherlock hacks John's blog?) and reads them while he's abroad, missing John. Or, he gets back to Baker Street after three years and gets to read them all.

The lyrics are merely borrowed from the band Nighttiming. I hope you enjoy it.

–

_**all things aside**_

or the proper title:

_**'all the clutter and mess and love you left for me'**_

"_It rains a lot this time of year  
>And we both go together if one falls down<br>I talk out loud like you're still around  
>And I miss you"<em>

–

**13th December, 2011**

_Sherlock,_

_I already feel stupid and I'm not even a full sentence in, because writing to a dead man feels about as pointless as talking to the skull. At least the skull can't glare at me with the same intensity as the white sheets of paper under my palms. My therapist says that blogging won't help this time, so instead she wants me to write you letters and mail them somewhere- something about physically letting go of all things I wanted to say to you._

_Utter rubbish, I know, but it's better than nothing, because that's what I've been left with: nothing. I spoke to Mycroft about it today and I'll be mailing them to one of his many residential holdings, where they won't be picked up and read by accident. So that's that, I suppose, though I'm not exactly sure how long I'm suppose to write for, if I even have anything of consequence to say._

_Mycroft has finally finished setting all your affairs in order, he's taken care of your debts, because even if he was your archenemy, he cared more about you than the government or anything else. I tried to get him to take the violin but he simply told me that it would serve me better here, as usual I have no clue what that means._

_It turns out that you left all your bank account and worldly possessions to me. Why, Sherlock? Why would you leave all your belongings to someone you had only known for a little over two years? Surely you knew that no amount of money could ever be enough to replace you. I'd rather be a member of your homeless network if that meant you were still here, watching me write with the same exasperated expression._

_Still, as this is the first letter I guess it's best to say something of meaning. It's been a month since that night and I still can't sleep a full night. I just miss you._

_-**John Watson**_

–

**25th December, 2011 **

_Sherlock,_

_All day I've been reminded of you, more than usual. Harry came round earlier this week trying to get me to put up a tree, but I can't. Even if you hated Christmas and the hols in general, all your things are cluttered around me and sometimes I can't even breathe._

_I bought you a present forever ago, a new journal for your experiments, and god I never though I'd miss them as much as I do. It's black leather with your name pressed into it, because you're pretty much the hardest bloke on earth to shop for. I also bought you a purple scarf, because yours is looking rather worse for wear and purple always makes you look more vivid._

_Sometimes I go to your bedroom door thinking that I can just walk in, but things are never that simple are they? I can hear what you'd say- "It's simply a door, John, I don't see why it should be like any other door you have ever opened." But it is, Sherlock, because it's yours._

_Mycroft called and wished me a Happy Christmas and all I wanted to tell him is that everything is too raw and fresh to be anything close to happy. _

_Still, Happy Christmas, Sherlock, wherever you are._

**-_John Watson_**

–

**12th February, 2012**

_Sherlock,_

_I haven't written to you in a while, mainly because I have nothing to say. I started a new job at Bart's hoping that it would help me move on. Let's just say you would be correct in calling me an idiot because if anything it just hurts that much worse. Surely I should be feeling better by now? For once I am at a loss for how to deal with emotion- you'd probably laugh if you were here to see it._

_It's St. Valentines Day soon and I'm taking a nurse from the oncology ward out for drinks. It seems sort of bland, I suppose, but my therapist is adamant that I move on. I remember last year when we dealt with that double murder on Valentines Day- not sure I have ever seen you so festive. Sometimes I wish I had said more when you were alive, but it doesn't really matter all that much now, does it?_

_I saw Lestrade today, he was in with his wife, she's having a baby this fall. He asked how I was and I just said fine. I'm not how I'm supposed to handle it, all the questions, if you were here you would know exactly what to say. Of course it would be laden with scientific terms and in all probability rude, but at least it would be honest._

_I'm not sure I know how to be honest anymore, Sherlock._

**-_John Watson_**

–

**15th April, 2012**

_Sherlock,_

_Writing to you shouldn't be so easy and so hard at the same time. It feels like you are just away on another case and you'll come home any moment. I can remember those first few days after the incident, I kept waiting for you to bounce through the door, banging on about Anderson or Lestrade and how stupid they are._

_I write to you at night mostly, when I can't sleep because all I can hear are explosions and all I can see is you toppling over that cliff, Moriarty in your clutches. Of course the latter is mere speculation since I wasn't there. Why wasn't I there? I could've saved you- even if it meant he got away, I could have saved you._

_You would've never stopped though. He was your match in every way possible, you knew that if you didn't kill him he'd kill me first. For someone who claims to be a sociopath, you're quite protective of a loser, ex-army doctor that lives in the same flat as you. Losing me, god, Sherlock, losing me wouldn't be near as horrible as losing you was._

_I'm not sure it will ever feel any less horrible. _

_**-John Watson**_

–

**26th May, 2012**

_Sherlock,_

_I'm currently making my way through half our alcohol supply. I heard someone playing a piece that you always played as I was coming home from Bart's and it opened the flood gates. All I can think of is your stupid long fingers and that damn violin that rudely woke me up so many times. It broke my heart, because that's what you did best wasn't it? Break my heart._

_You had to go alone, you just bloody had to, because you're Sherlock Holmes and you're goddamn invincible. You had to leave me with all your clutter and mess and all the regrets. You left me with nothing, absolutely nothing. I guess that's how much I meant to the Great Sherlock Holmes. You would rather throw your money at me than let me help you._

_How could you be so bloody stupid? You had to know the moment I shot that cabbie the day after we met- you knew that I wouldn't let you destroy yourself and what did you go and do? Did you even stop and think how I would feel? Of course not, why should you, I'm just John- dull, predictable, boring John. I'm sorry I couldn't give you enough excitement. _

_Well, fuck you, Sherlock Holmes for making me think that loving you was a good thing to do. I hate you most days for what you've done to me, but I hate myself more because I knew you'd never have me, no matter how long I stayed or how much I put up with you._

_I don't have to worry about it anymore because you've been dead far too long for it to even matter anymore._

_**-John Watson**_

–

**1st June, 2012 **

_Sherlock,_

_My last letter was, admittedly, not one of my shining moments, but I mailed it whilst in my drunken stupor so there's no point pretending it didn't happen. I'm sorry- god, what am I saying? I'm apologizing to a dead man for god's sake. The thing is, Sherlock, I'm still more angry than you can possibly imagine._

_I'm more angry than the time you blew up the microwave and set the kitchen on fire; I'm more angry than the time that you thought my favorite jumper was a good tool to use in one of your experiments and ended up ruining it- I'm so so angry and I don't know what to do with myself because I know that it isn't fair to you or to me, but I can't help it._

_I've been on at least five dates since February and each of them means less than the one that proceeds it. How is that even possible? I'm supposed to get better and not worse but I guess nothing can be normal when you're involved._

_Loving you taught me many things about myself, and mostly it taught me that without you I'm dull. You were what made me shine, Sherlock, but now I'm faded and rusting. Nothing will ever be the same without you again. _

_**-John Watson**_

–

**22nd July, 2012**

_Sherlock, _

_I found a tongue in one of the cupboards when I was doing some spring cleaning today, well, I guess it's more summer cleaning but I never was one for cleaning anyway. I had already started off to text you a scornful message and then I realized how long it's been. It winded me in a way because time isn't going to stop, even as much as I feel like it has, it rolls by in lurches and lulls and manages to suffocate me. _

_Mrs. Hudson has tried to get me to get a flatmate but that feels wrong. Frankly, I have enough money to buy a whole damn house thanks to you, but I won't leave. Why did you even want a flatmate to begin with? I mean, you had enough money and you said yourself that you were a sociopath, maybe you knew you weren't, though. I think you wanted someone close to you, because you were human, and being lonely isn't pleasant for any of us. Why didn't you ever say so?_

_I hate that I understand you more in death than I ever did in life. It doesn't really feel like a fair trade off to me. I keep having the same nightmare- that night at the pool. All I can see is Moriarty's face as you pulled the trigger, but this time I can't get to you in time. You just explode in front of me, and just like now I never got to tell you anything. God you were so right. I am a right bloody idiot._

_**-John Watson**_

–

**2nd September, 2012**

_Sherlock,_

_The leaves are turning once more, there are more reds that usual this year. I'm sure if you were here you could tell me the exact reason why throwing in bits about soil and fertilization and photosynthesis and what not. I would just listen like always._

_It's been raining more than usual, which is really saying something for London in Autumn, but I feel like I've nearly been drowned every time I manage to step outside. It's miserable and it just seems to keep me miserable as well._

_Mycroft dropped by this morning to see how I've been. He looks more plump than usual, when I asked him about it he smiled that creepy smile he has and told me that I was more like you than I thought. I think he really misses you, though, he kept looking at your bedroom door and I think he was remembering when you were kids._

_It just struck me that I never asked about your childhood. I'm not sure you would have told me anyway, you were always sort of weird when it came to that sort of thing. I don't think I ever told you my story either. Perhaps one day I'll write it to you, but for now I have to go to Bart's._

_Work is nothing without you, just like everything else._

_**-John Watson**_

–

**30th October, 2012**

_Sherlock,_

_I'm writing this to you from Bart's! I admit it'll probably be hasty and completely lacking structure but for good reason. I'm not on duty, if you were wondering, (oh god what am I saying), anyway, I'm in the south wing. By now you would have deduced that the south wing is the maternity ward. Lestrade has just welcomed his first son into the world! _

_He's a beautiful, albeit frightening, little thing. Seven pounds and five ounces, completely healthy. He's got dark curly hair and these beautiful blue eyes and I wish more than anything you were here to see it. He would melt even your cold heart. _

_The reason I'm writing this to you is to say that they've named him Brylon Sherlock Lestrade. I don't know if you'd be proud or if you just rolled over in your grave- probably a mix of both. Lestrade was always fond of you, I'm sure you knew that, but you know what sentiment does to people. _

_I guess it's a comfort that there is another Sherlock in the world, who knows, maybe he'll be a Consulting Detective when he grows up- London is currently in short supply of those these days. He's a beautiful baby, but no one can ever be as beautiful to me as you were._

_**-John**_

–

**12th November 2012**

_Sherlock,_

_It's been a year. A whole year._

_I don't think I'll ever be able to make it through this day whilst conscious. Sleeping pills are my only means of escape today, and for once I'll take the easy out. You'd be disappointed, but we all slip up sometimes._

_Rest in peace._

_**-John**_

–

**3rd January, 2013**

_Sherlock,_

_I wish I had kissed you that night we spent at Lestrade's for the New Year's party with the rest of the Yard. You were only slightly tipsy and I was embarrassingly far gone, but I remember how sad you looked when I spotted you out on the balcony._

_You told me that you felt the holiday was stupid because only idiots believed that the stroke of a hand on a clock meant they could change all the bad things ingrained into their psyche. I think you were probably right, but my resolution this year is to try and write less. Maybe that'll help. It can't be more painful than what I'm doing now._

_Still, your lips were always so beautiful to me, round and pink, generally from the cold. You stood taller than me but never have I regretted anything more. I should've pushed mine against yours, I never thought I'd have to leave you or that you would choose to leave me._

_I wish I had kissed you until you forgot all forms of logic. I wish I had kissed you until you kissed me back. _

_You were the most incredible person I have ever met and I was stupid enough to think you would be here forever._

**-_John_**

–

**4th May, 2013**

_Sherlock, _

_May the fourth be with you. You'd never catch that reference, I suppose, because I doubt you ever saw any of the Star Wars films. Shame, you probably would have liked them despite the terrible CGI. I think you would have enjoyed the creativity of it all, much better than the Bond films. I get a fit of the giggles every time I think about you watching those movies with me on the sofa._

_You just sat and scoffed every time Bond kissed any of those girls and would literally exclaim at all his ridiculous gadgets. Your blatant lack of pop culture was one of my favorite things about you, because you always seemed to perfect, it was nice to know there were things that you didn't know. Especially when it comes to government, though I'm sure that stemmed from some childish feud with Mycroft in years gone by._

_Lestrade's son is speaking, well babbling is more like, I went around to see him a few days ago. He looks less like you now that he's older, but he's got the same curls, still out of control and messy. It made my heart ache for a moment, but then he started drooling all over my jumper and that got all of us laughing._

_It feels odd to laugh without you there, though I guess one would call this progress. Perhaps my New Year's resolution is working out for me, I just wist it hadn't taken your death to spur things into action._

_**-John**_

–

**25th August, 2013**

_Sherlock,_

_I went into your room for the first time since the incident. I'm not sure I had ever been in there before, to be honest. I had always assumed that it would be hazardous to my health to step foot in that place, which really, wasn't that far off the mark._

_I mean, really, Sherlock? You had to have eels in jars and a human foot in some gooey substance that I don't have any interest in knowing. Your books are everywhere, on your floor, on your dresser, on your clothes. You've got a chemistry set on your bed for god's sake, it's no wonder you never slept in there. I found some of your old jumpers that you never wore. They still smell like you._

_I might've taken one to bed with me last night. Sentimental and all that, but I'm not going to be ashamed of it. I can't ever be ashamed of anything to do with you._

**-_Your John_**

–

**12th November, 2013**

_Sherlock,_

_I love you._

**-_Your John_**

–

**17th January, 2014**

_Sherlock, _

_I don't want you to think that because I don't write as often means I miss you any less. I miss you every morning I wake and every night I lay down. I boxed up some of your things and put them in the attic, I've been trying to move on for two years now, so I figured it was time to thin out the flat a bit, makes things easier in the long run._

_Harry came round today, my father died two days ago, I never told you about him. I suppose you probably deduced everything about him from my pocket watch or something, but I think that now would be a good time to tell you, since you'll never actually read it anyway._

_I was born into a fairly stable family, a military type father who happened to be a doctor and a mousey mother. Harry came along a few years later and for most of my younger childhood things were normal, happy. I was never a poor kid and Harry and I always had good birthdays and Christmases, but when I was twelve my mother was killed in a mobbed related stabbing._

_Da took it pretty hard, he drank a little more than was healthy, something that Harry and I witnessed from a young age. It wasn't all the time or predictable, but one day he hit me and from that day on it never really stopped. He would hit me for small things, forgetting to do the dishes, coming home ten minutes late- but I dealt with it. Pain wasn't exactly my biggest concern, but I came home to find him slapping Harry and I knew that I couldn't do it anymore._

_I was only seventeen, but I signed up for the service to get a pay cheque and send me to school. Harry and I pretty much lived off my income and soon she met Clara and ended up spending most of her nights at the other girl's house. It wasn't until I left for Afghanistan that Harry started drinking, because despite everything, I was turning into our father- military, doctor, but she didn't understand that I wanted those things for other reasons._

_In my absence Harry left Clara and she and Da reconnected after she found out his liver was failing, not really a surprise given that the man drank like a fish. Still, she managed to forgive him, something that I could never do. She called me when he died and I expected to feel sad, but mostly I felt relieved. _

_I don't know anything about your family and I suppose some would say mine is pretty cliché, but it didn't make it any less horrific. So yes, I dove into saving people and solving crimes because of my mother, but after a while it became a way to learn more about you. I should've taken the time to ask you more questions than I did._

_I'm going to his funeral in a few hours and I would give anything to have you there, with your sense of detachment, but also your warm hand in mine. I wonder if I'll ever stop missing you like I do. _

_**-Your John**_

–

**1st April, 2014**

_Sherlock, _

_I always wonder where these letters end up. Does Mycroft read them? Probably... if so, sod off, Mycroft. I don't even know what country they're sent to. Mycroft does like his privacy doesn't he? Ironic since he can't respect anyone else's. _

_I went to your tombstone today, I didn't cry or anything, I just sat and read next to it. I think that's probably not a sane man's behavior but I've never exactly been sane. It was quiet and peaceful and I didn't have that damn skull staring me down like I do back at the flat._

_Anderson finally managed to knock Sally up- talk about gossip at the Yard. Still, all I can think about are the scathing remarks you'd give them if you knew. I doubt you'll get two kids named after you, though I'm sure you'd roll over in your grave for sure if Anderson named his kid after you- not to mention the fact that hell would have to freeze over first. _

_I stopped seeing my therapist. I don't know why I keep writing a dead man, but it feels like you're all I've ever known, Sherlock, and I don't know how to quit._

_**-Your John**_

–

**30th June, 2014**

_Sherlock,_

_I can't keep writing you. I shut down the blog today and I moved the last of your things to storage. It's time that I moved on for good and writing to you isn't helping that. I need to finish this because I refuse to waste away anymore. _

_You were invariably the best friend I shall ever be fortunate enough to have, you were also the only man to whom I have truly ever been in love with. I doubt that I will ever stop loving you, but I need to try to push past that._

_I love you and miss you every day. I'm sorry there were so many things I never said, but thank you for giving me purpose again and helping me see the vivid colors in a world I was once certain could only be grey._

_-**Forever your John**_

–

**13****th**** December 2014**

John Watson sat in 221B Baker Street, trying to focus on whatever crap show was playing over the telly, his eyes wandering to the skull on the mantle. It was slightly damp in the flat, it had been a fairly terrible winter thus far and he dreaded what that meant for the next few winter months. He had piled on his two warmest jumpers and resolved to get the heating fixed next time he was off work.

A sharp bang from the hall set his old war senses on edge and he jumped from the sofa, hand already clasped around his gun. A tall body fell into the sitting room, curls askew and face paler than John had ever seen it. Sherlock Holmes looked tired and a little worse for wear, but overall not too terribly bad.

"Sherlock what the bloody hell-" He began but Sherlock stood in front of him, blue eyes brighter than John had remembered.

"You stopped writing." He said simply, staring down at John, who was convinced he was having a hallucination or a heart attack.

"How- How are you- I- _What_?" He sputtered at the last moment as Sherlock's words sunk in. He had stopped writing. Suddenly the entire world felt like it had been flipped upside down and John was grasping at straws.

"After I killed Moriarty I had to leave. They would have stopped at nothing to kill you, John, you knew that. And I- I couldn't let that happen." Sherlock spoke gently, his rich voice filled with some emotion that was more than likely foreign to him. "I hunted down and killed every last member of Moriarty's vast network."

John felt like his brain had finally gone bonkers. Sherlock had been gone three years and just as John was finally coming to terms with his death, he showed up saying he'd been alive the whole time. John wondered briefly what sanity and a normal life even were.

"You said I stopped writing. How did you know about the letters?" John finally asked when he managed to regain the ability to form coherent sentences. Sherlock smirked for a moment.

"Mycroft. He mailed them to me, wherever I was staying. He thought it might help." The detective's hands wasted no more time before he was running his fingers along the doctor's bewildered face.

"So that means you- you know everything then." John spluttered, looking at Sherlock for some hint at some emotion.

Sherlock smiled gently, "Everything."

With that the taller man pushed his lips against John's, a sensation John never thought he'd be able to experience. It was warm and soft, and only the slightest bit awkward, but mostly it was comforting. When they broke apart, John found that he was crying, embarrassed he wiped the tears from his eyes before Sherlock caught his hand.

"I'm sorry I left. I know I just left you with clutter and mess and pain, but I had to keep you safe." He ran a finger along John's cheek, "After all, where would I be without my blogger?"

John choked back a mixture between a sob and a laugh.

"I love you." He finally said the words that had been threatening to spill since the moment Sherlock had stumbled into their flat.

"And I, you." Sherlock spoke firmly, pulling John in for a hug. He glanced over John's head to the corner of the room, "Thank you for keeping my violin. I did miss it." Sherlock said softly, nose still pressed in John's hair.

"Now when can I meet the toddler, Brylon? If he's named after myself, I should think I would be the judge of his character." He asked after a few moments of silence.

John simply laughed into the taller man's chest, "I think you'll give Lestrade a heart attack. He may regret naming his kid after you."

They fell back into their easy banter but John didn't stop smiling for days, despite when Lestrade fainted at the sight of Sherlock or even when Brylon spit up all over his namesake's favorite shirt. Life was as it should be: never quiet and constantly unpredictable, just the way Dr. Watson and Sherlock Holmes liked it.


End file.
